


You'll jump off of the bridge again (and I will never see you)

by hidinginthethickets (orphan_account)



Series: East Coast/West Coast [1]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, D slur, F slur, Friends to Lovers, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Canon, Recreational Drug Use, Road Trips, Slow Burn, Takes Place In 1992, Underage Drinking, all friendship is romantic, also i put bev in portland oregon bc i felt like it ok, its not rly canon compliant but the contents of it ch 1 have taken place, mike and stan bc they are important but it is delayed, the d slur is used in reclaimation but pls take care of yourself as needed!, very mini east coast roadtrip
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-01-26 00:07:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21364915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/hidinginthethickets
Summary: After getting together with all the Losers to send Bill off to college, Richie convinces Eddie to follow him to New York City for a road trip, celebrating their last summer as teenagers.(Or, Eddie steps 400 miles outside his comfort zone and falls in love with his best friend while he's doing it.)
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Mike Hanlon/Stanley Uris
Series: East Coast/West Coast [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1540249
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	1. I heard your heart's about the size of your fist

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first published fic! Wow! Title is from the zombies, the bodies! by mal blum :) Also the timeline is super fucked up but the references are very researched and dated and i refuse to fix it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is pretty short and mostly a jumping off point! the action is on its way

“Aren’t you nervous?” Stan asks Bill, looking around the empty room. He sits curled up at Mike’s side, knees tucked into his chest.

Bill shakes his head, “Aren’t you nervous to st-stay?” They laugh, sprawled out in a misshapen circle. It’s a heavy laugh, their strange, low voices suddenly alien in a child’s bedroom. Eddie moves from the hardwood to the bare mattress pushed against the wall where Richie is sprawled out.

Beverly’s laugh turns into a contagious yawn and she sinks into Ben, closing her eyes. He yawns too, “That’s our cue, I think,” He rises with her on his arm, “We’re headed to bed.”

“Don't do anything gross in Mr. and Mrs. Denbrough’s room!” Richie shouts. Beverly’s eyes open to shoot him a beep-beep look as she walks out the door.

“We should all get to b-be-bed,” Bill says, standing into a tall stretch.

Mike helps Stan up and says, “We’ll be here early tomorrow.”

“You’re not st-aying?”

“Sorry Bill,” Mike smooths out his shirt, “I have to be back at the farm. My old man’s worried about me leaving Derry- what with . . .” He trails off, too kind to say what he means, _What with you and Bev_. Bill shakes his head, knowing Mike would never leave anyways. Stan waves a curt goodnight.

“Alright,” Bill starts, grabbing his overnight bag from the pile of sheets and sleeping bags in the corner, “I’m super t-t-tired. If you n-ne-need anything, I’ll be on the couch d-downstairs,” He smiles. No one is sleeping in Georgie’s room. Just before he gets out the door he turns around and says pointedly, “The r-room’s all yours.”

He leaves before they can respond but Eddie says “What?” loudly, anyways. “What?” He repeats, turning to Richie.

“I don't know, I think Beverly said something to him last week.”

“What do you think she said?”

Richie throws a sleeping bag at Eddie’s face.

“Oh I am not sleeping on the floor, you bastard. I’ll die of hypothermia. Or scoliosis.”

Richie tosses another sleeping bag towards the mattress, “Breaking a bone makes it stronger, actually. No arm-scoliosis for you, Eddie Spaghetti! Anyways we’re sleeping _in_ the sleeping bags, on top of the mattress.”

Richie tosses another blanket and Eddie lays out the sleeping bags side-by-side, muttering, “That is so not true. Asshole.”

Richie grabs his pajamas and toothbrush from Eddie’s backpack and leaves to change in the bathroom. Eddie changes in the closet, as quickly as possible. He finds the bathroom empty, with Richie’s toothbrush in the sink and the cap off the toothpaste, meaning Richie is outside for one last smoke before bed. _He should just do it out the window,_ Eddie thinks, _it’s too cold and too late to be outside._ Richie would never, though. He hates when Eddie sees him smoking.

Eddie tries not to think about Richie when he’s smoking, or lung disease, or a hole in Richie’s neck, while he brushes his teeth, making sure to get his molars. His mother says you can have so many cavities your tooth falls out before you even notice, if you’re not careful. So he is very careful.

Eddie is so caught up in his molars he jumps when Richie’s shoulder hits the doorframe. Eddie spits into the sink, setting his toothbrush down to wash his face.

“I hate when you do that.”

Richie leans forward against the counter, lifting up onto his tiptoes, “Do what? Seduce you?”

“No, you do that thing where you puff up and then just make crazy eye contact with your reflection. It’s insane- you look insane.”

Richie grins and then straightens his shoulders and relaxes his face, making direct eye contact with his reflection. “Like that?” He whispers, not breaking eye contact. Eddie laughs, muffling it with the hand towel. _Disgusting,_ he thinks, _hand towels have, like, a million germs and now those germs all over my fa-_ He looks up and Richie is staring at him now. His shoulders are still stiff so it feels like he’s looming over Eddie and his glasses are folded up on the counter so his face looks naked and gaunt. His eyes look huge, even without the chunky glasses.

They’re in some bit now and Eddie doesn’t want to be the one to break it up so he makes his face slack and his eyes wide and tries to burn holes into his own head. He’s trying not to drift into Richie’s eye contact but it’s difficult. Slowly but surely, out of the corner of his eye, he sees Richie’s eyebrows creep up and he almost laughs.

He holds it together until Bill walks in like he might be there to do something, says, “You g-guys are fucking weird,” and turns back around, leaving.

“_He’s_ weird tonight,” Richie says.

Eddie shakes his head. He knows how strange he and Richie seem to everyone else. How strange they are to everyone else. He thinks it’s worth it to have all these extended and nonsensical jokes between them. But sometimes he gets caught up in the look the other Losers share when he and Richie are passing a reference back and forth until it only makes sense to them. He feels trapped in that _here they go_ _again_ look. That’s usually when he shuts down the joke, getting reserved and guilty and sort of lonely. He thinks that’s pretty dumb- being lonely because you’re too close to your best friend. Lame.

“Do you think he’s sad?” Eddie asks, partly to break up his thoughts and partly because he wants to know what Richie thinks.

“To leave Derry? No way.”

“What about leaving us?”

“Let’s go to bed,” Richie puts his glasses back on.

“It’s cold as fuck, Richie,” Eddie is still nestling into his sleeping bag, worming deeper into it, 15 minutes after they’ve laid down because no matter what he can’t warm up or get totally comfortable.

“You know what would warm us up?” Richie dips his head forward and raises his eyebrows, a gesture Eddie can barely see in the dark but one he’s familiar enough to recognize in almost any condition.

“Gross,” Eddie leans his head away from Richie, whose voice keeps surprising him in the dark.

Richie snorts and pushes his sleeping bag against Eddie.

Eddie tries laying totally still and willing some warmth into his sleeping bag but it’s no use; he’s freezing. Then he tries wriggling around and rubbing at his arms, and then curling up and rubbing at his knees, trying to create friction heat in his whole body at once. Still cold.

“Jesus Christ, Eddie! Is my sister in there or something? What the fuck?” Richie’s voice is strained with sleep and Eddie starts to feel guilty for keeping him up. He dwells on the sister comment and his guilt melts away.

He does his best to kick Richie’s bag from within his own but his aim sucks and the slippery material of the sleeping bag isn’t helping, “Fuck you, I’m cold!”

“Just get in my bag, Eds!”

Eddie props himself up on his elbow, betraying his arms to the cool air and regretting it instantly, “What kind of creepy hook is that? ‘Get in my bag’? Definitely not enticing.”

“Good use of the word ‘enticing’, Spaghetti! But I’m serious,” Richie props up on his elbow, too, facing Eddie, “It’s cold, you’re cold, hop in!” He slips into an impression right at the end of the sentence, a questionable southern accent with a heavy drawl.

When they first turned out the lights, Eddie thought it was totally pitch black, but now he focuses in on Richie’s face he can almost see the outline of his nose and the pale peach color under his eyes. Richie starts unzipping his sleeping bag.

“No, wait,” The unzipping sound stops and Eddie thinks he can see Richie dip his head forward, “Isn’t that a little, um . . .” Eddie trails off, his voice small in the wide, dark room.

“Oh,” Richie’s voice feels loud, much louder than Eddie’s, even though his tone is measured and low.

Eddie feels sick to his stomach. He tries to imagine what he was going to say, before trailing off, but he comes up empty. Why couldn’t he just share the sleeping bag with Richie? What is this string between them that he just broke? What can he say to fix it?

“I just mean-” Maybe if he could say _Yes. Yes, Richie, let’s share a sleeping bag,_ he would. Maybe not. But, really, he can’t, “Germs.”

“Yeah,” Still flat. Measured. Low, “Yeah, okay,” Eddie tries to imagine that Richie believes him, totally, but he knows neither of them do.

Eddie’s arm drops from under him and he curls into his sleeping bag. Still cold. He closes his eyes and tries to focus in on his numbing toes and the goosebumps on his arms. He hears the unzipping sound again and Richie’s clambering up from the mattress. He falls asleep while Richie is gone, his body pushed against the wall.

When Eddie wakes up it’s because Richie is snoring. Eddie almost cries with relief. They’ve never had a fight that lasted longer than a day and he didn’t really think they’d start now but a small part of him had worried. He’s still flattened against the wall and Richie had made no effort to move closer to him throughout the course of the night. Their sleeping bags make no contact. There is a flash of sadness. Eddie feels like there was some sweet, soft memory that he could’ve made last night. Like the cheesy brat-pack movies Richie and Bev watch- late night talking and expository dialogue, a dorky sleepover memory, a remnant of highschool and early childhood and something much more important.

It’s only a flash- he wrecked the moment before it had even started and it feels silly to dwell. It doesn’t matter anyways. The sunlight is streaming in, making the room seem huge and especially empty; he isn’t so worried. He can hear voices downstairs, not individual ones but a buzz of conversation. He hopes it’s everyone.

Richie wakes up as Eddie’s leaving the room. He rolls over and, keeping his eyes closed, says, “Good morning, Eddie-Baby. Good morning,” His arms are outstretched and his voice is leaden. Eddie laughs at him, high and sweet. He’s in a good mood.

Downstairs, Mike and Beverly buzz around the kitchen together, cooking breakfast for the group. Mike is cooking at least 4 different kinds of eggs and Bev is mixing yoghurt and fruit into little bowls in a constant effort to keep them all from getting scurvy.

Stan is the first to notice Eddie coming down the stairs, “Richie still getting his beauty sleep?”

Eddie laughs a little, “Yeah and it isn’t working.”

They sit huddled around the kitchen island in the fold-out chairs Mike brought. They talk a little louder and a little faster than they normally do, their conversation twisting and branching into separate, smaller conversations, and reforming when one of them catches an outrageous snippet of a nearby joke or story, looping back onto itself and channeling into an entirely different topic.

Eddie thinks that the reason they’re so boisterous is the Final Day energy of it all. It reminds him a lot of the way they behaved on the senior prom and even more so the way they behaved at their graduation (and the after party). Bill leaves in the early afternoon and next semester Ben will follow Beverly to Portland and Richie won’t shut up about New York and even Stan and Mike will leave. So they laugh extra loud and Eddie makes more jokes than he normally would and Stan makes wittier quips and Ben and Mike join in on the bickering more than normally do. Eddie thinks this would feel good if it didn’t hurt so bad. He feels an ache for the moment he’s in- thinking about how much he will miss this a decade from now, a year from now, tomorrow morning. He feels it all build up in his throat and he really thinks he might start sobbing, right there, in front of everyone. The tension breaks when Richie stumbles down the stairs, hair matted to his head on one side and completely vertical on the other side. _Totally unflattering, _Eddie thinks. 

“You all-” Richie interrupts himself with a yawn, “You all sat in silence waiting for me, right? No talking or banter? Just anticipation?”

“Yeah,” Stan holds his chin in his hands gently, face totally relaxed, “Praying for you to die in your sleep,” This sends the group into another, more vigorous, round of conversation. 

Bev shouts “Zing! Zing! Richie!” and Richie is sounding off rapid fire Jew jokes- much too off color for the decade but totally tame for his repertoire with Stan. Stan gives him a dry look that eventually breaks into a smile. Ben asks Mike how the farm is and Mike launches into a detailed explanation of some re-fencing he worked on for weeks, only to have it torn down by one specifically evil sheep. Eddie watches Bill’s profile and can’t help but notice how sad he looks. 

_ This is his childhood home, where he grew up with his brother, _ He thinks, surprised at himself for not considering how complex and difficult this must be for Bill earlier, _ And it’s filled with his friends, laughing and joking like they have for the past decade and he’s leaving it behind in a couple hours. _He imagines that Bill is trying to catalogue each Loser- their hair and their laugh and the way their face never stops moving. He imagines how much Bill will miss Beverly, the first girl he ever loved, and Richie and Stan, his friends since pre-K, and all of them. All of them, for a thousand reasons each. Bill looks over at him. 

He tries to smile but he thinks his eyes are watering so he just bumps Bill’s arm with his elbow instead. 

Richie bends over the counter, long arms taking up all the space they possibly can, and begins eating the last bites of Bill’s omelette, “Ready to take on the world, Big Bill?” He says through a very visible mouthful of egg and cooked vegetables. 

Eddie rolls his eyes at Richie’s disgusting habits but shoves down his urge to rant about halitosis when he catches the look on Bill’s face. It’s all _ I miss you _ and _ Never change, Trashmouth _ and Eddie thinks he will begin to cry for the third time if someone doesn’t interrupt him soon. 

Luckily, Bill speaks, “Actually, I have t-to go in like, an hour."

Bev’s head snaps up, almost frantic but not quite angry, “What? I thought you were leaving in the afternoon,” Bill smiles guiltily. Eddie chokes on laugh. Bill and Bev are strictly platonic (As platonic as any of them can be) but Bev keeps him on a short leash. 

“I thought I sh-should leave a little earlier,” He mutters and Eddie leans into his arm, a kind of forgiveness, “I d-di-didn’t want t-to ruin the last muh-morning.” Bev mouths around the phrase quietly, _l__ast morning, last morning, last morning. _

Richie gives him a grin, all teeth, “I, for one, _ forgive _ you Big Bill!” He looks pointedly at Bev, although not as judgmentally as he’d like, he’s still grinning. 

Ben slings an arm around her shoulders and it’s like it wakes her up, “I’m not mad!” It’s lucid but a little too hyper to be believable, “I’m not mad,” She tries again, gentler, and earnest. Bill looks grateful and leans back into Eddie. 

After an exhausting seven-way debate on the best way to spend their last morning, a lot of shutting down Richie’s numerous strip-club-related suggestions, and a quick detour to a conversation about Waffles vs. Pancakes (a recurring gag that ends in screaming matches if they’re not careful), they settle on a diner near the edge of town, one they have been kicked out of the least amount of times. Richie suggests they walk there and Mike quickly shut down the idea, offering up his truck. 

“Alright, three in the cab and four in the bed, let’s go!” Mike swings his keys on his fingers, already half-out the door with Stan. 

Eddie trails diligently behind Stan without a second thought, unable to even imagine what it would be like to crowd with three fully grown adults in the back of a truck, hanging out the sides. What if one of them stuck their arm out just as a car went by? What if one of them _ fell _? 

Richie grabs his arms before he gets to the car door, “No way, Eduardo! Last morning!” He tows Eddie to the truck bed with Bill, Beverly, and Ben, “You’re hanging in the back with the best of the worst,” Ben shrugs, always the most good natured, the mediator. Eddie eyes him, waiting for a defense on his behalf. Instead Ben smiles like there’s not a thing in the world to be sorry for and gets in the cab with Mike and Stan. Bev leans forward a little, watching him walk away, but quickly catches herself and begins asking Bill about how much furniture he can fit in his cramped and overpriced apartment. 

“No, no, no,” Eddie’s spitting, foaming at the mouth, but he knows it’s a losing battle, “Richie, there were 130,000 car accidents last year alone, one hundred and thirty _ thousand _ ! My mom told me- no, shut up, listen, she told me that she knew a guy, like, three years ago and he- listen, he got fucking decapitated,” He slows down a lot on the word decapitated and Richie looks like he might use the opportunity to start talking, “Shut up!” Eddie stops him, just as fast-paced as before, “Shut up! Listen! He lost his fucking head in a fucking car accident, Richie! His fucking head! Richie just laughs, throwing his whole head back with it, like it’s the funniest thing in the world. Decapitation. _ Decapitation. _

“Do you need help getting your cute ass up there?” He lights up, “Do I get to do the Dirty Dancing lift?”

Eddie splutters and starts clambering into the bed of the truck (It is admittedly a little more difficult than he expected but nothing in the world could be difficult enough to warrant asking for Richie’s help) and Richie just laughs more, “Have it your way,” His legs are so long he follows Eddie like he’s walking up the porch steps in front of his house.

They sit close together, squished around planks of light wood and a box of books Bill is sending home with Mike. The drive is short and Eddie has a white knuckle grip on the sleeve of Richie’s shirt with one hand and his own pants leg with the other. He catches Bev’s eye and when she smiles at him, his grip loosens a little. No wonder a third of their group is head over heels for her. _ Was _ head over heels for her. Bill’s totally cured. So much so that it’s a private joke now- what a hell their love triangle made the Losers’ junior year. The melodrama of it all. 

Still smiling, he looks over at Richie, who’s already looking at him with his stupid big eyes and dopey crooked teeth, “What are you staring at, pervert?” Eddie doesn’t know how Richie’s smile is always getter wider and dumber but it is. 

Richie leans back, his hair getting all fucked up the wind, in a gesture that reminds Eddie of those big sheepdogs, “You’re cute when you’re brave!” He yells, mouth wide open like he’s trying to eat the air. Eddie rolls his eyes so hard it hurts. _ Brave, _ he thinks, _ Brave for sitting in truck cab. _ He looks at Richie. All sheepdog. _ Pity, pity, pity. You _ pity _ me. _

Bev reaches over and punches Eddie in the arm and he realizes he has been staring at Richie. He thinks back to last night, _ I think Beverly said something Bill _ . He frowns, not really _ at _ her but sort of in her direction. She looks a little worried. He thinks she wants to know if he’s okay. Probably more if he’s anxious than if he’s angry. He doesn’t really get angry at Bev, anyways. He shakes his head and gives her a very slow and uncomfortable thumbs up. They all seem to talk to each other an awful lot without speaking but Eddie always finds a way to make it awkward.

They're pulling into the diner parking lot. Eddie tries to relax. 

The young guy at the register is clean, clipped, tall, and looks a little bored. As soon he realizes all seven of them are part of one group, the boredom melts away and he looks intimidated, eyes wide. His face is even more exaggerated once Richie struts up to the counter, leaning across it and talking quietly. He even winks. _ Totally egregious, _Eddie thinks. 

Richie manages to sweet talk the staff into letting them sit in a booth, a totally idiotic idea which not one of them protests to. They sit three to a bench and Bill pulls up a chair at the head, which Eddie thinks is a little on the nose but not necessarily inappropriate. 

Eddie is landed with the worst spot, between the wall and Richie. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know not a ton happened but we're getting there! I promise the next chapter there will be more plot and less inner monologue lol (or maybe not i love inner monologue) im on tumblr @tasteblind


	2. But that's not true, it's just a myth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beach day, thrifting (and makeovers), and going to a bar!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to my beta this chapter is way better than the first one lol. once again he is [@1892](https://1892.tumblr.com/) on tumblr

Stan looks around the clubhouse like he’s waiting for someone else to say speak. Then he says, “I miss him.”

No one responds. The silence is thick over them but not uncomfortable. Eddie recognizes this very special kind of silence, the kind that means they’re all thinking about exactly the same thing. It’s hard to tell, everyone’s so close already, but it feels like they all lean in a little bit more, get a little closer. Eddie’s shoulder bumps against Mike’s arm. They haven’t been down here in months. They’ve outgrown it, really.

It was the only place any of them could think to go after Bill had pulled out of the driveway. They rode their bikes there, another indulgence in nostalgia.

Richie is curled up in the corner of the clubhouse, still red and raw in the face. He had cried and for the entirety of Bill’s departure, alternating between throwing his arms around the nearest Loser and draping his body over Bill in a series of very earnest hugs.

Other than Richie, it had been a mellow, reserved affair. Each of them had a moment with Bill, a hug and a few words or a joke. Bev whispered something in his ear and kissed him on the mouth. It was both a very complicated and very simple gesture. Eddie grabbed at Bill’s sleeve like a little kid and thought that maybe if he were a girl he would kiss him, too.

Something breaks inside Eddie and he cries, really cries, for the first time all day. He screws his face up and dives into Mike’s shoulder. Mike holds him for a long time. 

“It’s all so stupid,” He sobs. Beverly moves closer and puts her hand on his head, running it through his hair over and over, talking quietly to him. She is crying, too. “It’s not like he’s dead,” Eddie continues, choked. Then Stan’s hand on his and is Ben crying too, sitting behind Beverly and holding onto her shoulder, muffled by the collar of her blouse. 

Richie leans into Bev’s side and puts his hand over hers. She smiles and pulls away, still whispering words none of them can hear. Eddie opens his eyes and looks up at Richie who’s not crying or grinning this time, just looking back at him, running his hands through his hair. Eddie tries to find pity in his face. _ Pity, pity, pity. _ No pity.

He leans into the touch.

It’s a long time, that they’re all piled up in the clubhouse, holding each other. Long after they stop crying. When they finally stand up, they’re almost back to normal. Loud and funny and draping arms over each other while they walk. Mike puts his big, sturdy jacket over Stan’s shoulders and Ben carries Beverly’s heels even though she hasn’t asked them to. 

Eddie feels a big, painful swell of love in his heart for everyone who is there with him and Bill, who is not. He almost stumbles under the weight of it. 

The sun is setting. Where had that last morning gone? Where had the last ten years gone? Why hadn’t he paid more attention during it all? Why doesn’t he know what kind of lunchbox Bill had in third grade or what he had punched Richie for last summer or when he and Mike first hung out alone? Why couldn’t he keep each second of these ten years in this shithole town? Were all those moments still there, inside him, raking claws down the inside of his organs? Or were they out there, somewhere? Out of reach?

“Quiet over there, Eds” Richie is testing the waters and Eddie knows it. He wants to grab him by the shirt and scream in his face, _ Do you remember it, Richie? Do you remember everything? Me fucking neither. What are we going to do about it? _

“Cherishing it, asshole?” Eddie means to say _ I’m fine, actually, so fuck off. Stop looking at me with those stupid huge eyes. I wish you were Stan. Fuck off, _But it doesn’t work, his voice is quiet and cracked from all the sobbing. Totally unconvincing. 

Richie’s still walking on eggshells in his tone, “Eddie, you know I love your cute, squeaky voice but, like . . .” His voice dies in the dusky air.

“Like, what, Tozier?” 

“Like, are you okay, man?”

Eddie smiles, he likes when Richie gets all open and honest, “Yeah. Yeah. _ Weird Science _ tonight?”

Richie slows down and stops, looking at his bike and then at the sunset and then craning his neck all the way around to look at the moon. He seems like he is waiting for someone to tell him what to say. He looks at Eddie, not in his eyes but towards him, and says, “Fuck!”

Eddie stops walking, his hands tight on the bike handles, “What?” Richie looks okay, not bleeding or broken or gory, but his face is all screwed up, “Are you hurt?” Eddie asks, even though he knows the answer. Richie relaxes his face a little. He’s staring at a spot near Eddie’s shoulder.

“We should follow Bill,” Richie leans forward just a tiny bit. Eddie thinks about last night, with the sleeping bag. 

Eddie stalls, wanting to avoid turning Richie down again, “What, to stalk him? Or do you mean you want us both to enroll in NYU? You know, not everyone is a genius like you and-” 

“No, like, let’s visit him.” 

“Richie, it’s 8:40 pm.” Eddie’s gone. He’s giving real reasons now, which means he’s absolutely going to agree. 

“Tomorrow morning.”

“You want to drive to New York City tomorrow morning to visit Bill, who we saw eight hours ago,” Another nail in the coffin.

“I want to take a road trip with-” Richie stops and gives him a big stupid smile with his big, stupid, crooked front teeth, “I just want to be on the road. I want to see the ocean and the city,” Eddie wants to stop him from asking so he doesn’t say yes, but it’s no use, “Come with me.”

_ He didn’t even _ ask_, _ Eddie thinks, _ What a dick move. No way I am going on a road trip with a guy who orders me around like I’m a fucking kid, _“Yeah, okay,” He says, “I’ll go.”

“I didn’t sleep for a fucking second last night,” Eddie stands, unsure what to do with himself while Richie packs his backpack and Eddie’s suitcase into the trunk of his car, “After you finished crying about _ Pretty Woman _\--”

“You promised never to speak of that,” Richie closes the trunk and leans against the car. 

“-- I had to bike back home and I got there at like 3 AM and then I had to pack and that was a nightmare because there’s hasn’t been travelled-sized-anything in our house since 1979--”

“Just bring normal sized things.”

“No, no, because if you lose a normal-sized bottle of shampoo then that’s, like, $6 but if you lose one of the little ones-- you know what? Stop interrupting.” He pauses to breathe, “I had to pack and then I had to write my mom this big, long letter about where I was going and promising I would be fine and everything and then I freaked out and tore it up and wrote everything on a sticky note and then I threw _ that _ away--”

“Just say you want me to drive, Eds.”

“I told you to stop interrupting me.”

Richie laughs and throws open the driver side door and that is the exact, traceable moment that the road trip begins.

Actually, it might be the moment they drive by the Derry town sign. 

“Fuck you! Fuck you and your shitty _ fucking _ clown!” Richie screams through the rolled down window, speeding up a little, probably unintentionally. His voice is loud and rough, breaking on the word ‘clown’. Eddie laughs like he knows what Richie is talking about. He doesn’t, not really. _ What clown? _ Eddie feels a little tug in the bag of his head. _ What clown? _ It hurts too much to think about so he lets it go. 

“We’re out, Eddie! We’re gone! Bonnie and Clyde on the run! Eloping!” It’s a string of half-jokes and nonsense words and Eddie really does understand this one. 

“Slow down, jackass. Leaving Derry doesn’t make us immune to car wrecks,” Richie takes his eyes off the road just for a second and he gives Eddie a _ Doesn’t it, though? _ Look.

Eddie, for the first hour, is waiting for the hurt of leaving. He is waiting for the big swell of love and pain but it doesn’t come. Eddie doesn’t really feel any big, important emotions, because being with Richie one-on-one in such a small space is all-consuming. Whenever Eddie starts to think he’s getting close to some sharp thing lodged in his heart, Richie turns up the stereo. 

It’s all mixes he’s made, kept in crates under his bed. It’s hard to tell if they were meticulously curated or randomly thrown together, it all sounds the same to Eddie. Richie’s fixated on bands with awful guitar, simple notes played off-beat and screechy, and really low, sad voices. Richie yells along to the words and Eddie still has no idea what any of the lyrics are. 

Eddie twists around, _ dangerous, unsafe, 130,000 accidents last-- _ to rifle through the tapes spread over the backseat. If he hears another fucking Mazzy Star song he’s going to open the car door and roll out. 

He sees one with little flowers drawn in the margins, pinks and purples crowded around neat cursive that reads, _ Summer Jams_. The word, _ JACKPOT _ blares loud and colorful in Eddie’s head, “_Summer Jams_, huh Richie?”

“What?” Every time Richie looks over at Eddie he does it like he’s risking their lives to steal a glance at him, despite the arrow-straight and almost-empty roads stretching out ahead of them. It is, of course, totally overdramatic and even Eddie recognizes this. Richie does it now, “Oh that,” Eyes back on the road, steady, “That’s Sarah’s. She loves that lame, girly shit.”

The back of the tape has small, loopy lettering, detailing the song list. It’s possibly the cheesiest and most predictable tape of all time. It’s all 80s girl hits, probably from Sarah’s highschool days. Eddie pops out Richie’s mix and puts in the tape. 

_ I come home in the morning light _

_ My mother says, "When you gonna live your life right?" _

_ Oh mother dear we're not the fortunate ones _

“Oh, fuck no!” Richie shouts and Eddie laughs, turning up the volume.

“Fuck yes, Richie! Fuck yes!”

_ And girls, they wanna have fun _

_ Oh girls just want to have fun _

They both scream along, knowing all the lyrics. Eddie smiles big and wide around the words and wonders, briefly, if this is chasing away Richie’s sadness too. There’s a glimpse of something Bev said years ago, _ I want to run towards something, not away. _ He wishes he could tell her now _ Don’t you want to run towards every awful thing now that we’re a little older? Don’t you want to chase yourself away? _Maybe they’ll come up on a pay phone soon and he will ask her if she knows what he means. 

It’s the second ABBA song that does Richie in.

"This sucks,” He says.

“It fun,” Eddie’s looking through tapes again, “It’s nostalgic.”

“I hate it.”

“You don’t hate ABBA,” Richie drums along the steering wheel and mouths along with the lyrics, _ Tonight the super trouper lights are gonna find me, Shining like the sun, _“Okay,” Eddie cedes, ejecting the tape, “But no grunge,” Richie pouts, eyes on the road.

They don’t stop until they get to the ocean, “Portland, Maine, baby!” Richie says. He pulls into the parking lot and squints over the pier, the amusement park, the food trucks, the people, straining to see the water, “You ever seen the ocean, Eds?” 

Eddie leans against the dash, “No. You have, right?”

“Once.”

“It’s crowded,” Eddie opens the door and stretches. He walks around the car and pops the trunk just as Richie’s slamming the driver’s side door. Richie kicks the tire while Eddie digs through his suitcase, looking for one of the two bottles of sunscreen he brought. 

“It’s not so bad for a summer afternoon. We can always get out of here if you get sick of all the sweaty tourists, though.”

“We’re sweaty tourists,” Eddie smears sunscreen on his arms and face and the back of his neck. He looks at the exposed ankle between the cuff of his jeans and the top of his socks and decides not to risk it, putting sunscreen there, too. Richie grabs at the bottle, putting sunscreen in a strip along his nose and nowhere else, getting it all over the bridge of his glasses and refusing to rub it in. 

“You look like an idiot and you’re going to get sunburned,” Eddie puts a pair of heavy sunglasses on and frowns. 

The concrete is hot and grainy with sand and the walk from the parking lot to the pier feels sweltering and endless. The first thing they do when they get to the amusement park is buy two large sodas. 

“Coke blows, Eds! Truly The Beatles of drinks,” Richie takes a long pull from his 20 oz of Pepsi and Eddie shakes his head furiously. 

“You have no taste. None at all,” Eddie smiles around the straw, “You know, just because something is popular doesn’t mean it’s bad. Actually, things are often popular because they’re good.”

Richie shakes his head, “Popular things are good? Explain windbreakers.”

“I know for a fact you own at least three windbreakers,” _ There’s probably a windbreaker in the fucking trunk. Liar, _ Eddie thinks and bumps his shoulder against Richie’s arm.

“Let’s go to the water.”

“Fine but if you litter that cup, I’m drowning you.”

“You know,” Richie says, so strung out and raw, Eddie knows this is the most beautiful thing either of them ever seen,“The ocean isn’t really all that.”

Eddie laughs, really laughs, his socks balled up in his shoes, hooked on his fingers. He stops laughing because he is worried it might become a sob if he lets it go on too long. There has been much too much crying, these past few days. He feels like he is hung up on the line, trying to dry.

The sun's high over their head, hot and merciless. The waves look painted against the sky, teal and bright, with blinding white caps. Closer to the shore, they lap at Eddie's ankles and he worries about the sunscreen being washed off, “Yeah. It’s just okay,” _ There it is, _ he thinks, _ there’s that big, painful swell. Ouch. _

Maybe it’s not so much leaving but the world he’s walking into. _ I am afraid of what I’m running towards, too. Ouch. _

The two of them can handle the sappy shit for all of ten minutes before Richie rips his shirt off and throws it in a pile with his shoes and socks, next to his neatly folded glasses. _Probably getting scratched by the sand, _Eddie thinks. Richie dives in, soaking his lame jean shorts. 

Eddie intends on staying dry but Richie sprays saltwater on him pretty early on. He shakes his head like a cartoon dog and soaks Eddie’s face and the collar of his shirt. After that it’s all over. Eddie’s jeans are soaked through and his hair is dripping into his eyes. His sunglasses, pushed up onto his head, are useless, the lenses covered in beads of water.

“Saltwater is so gross,” Eddie kicks more water and sand towards Richie, “This is disgusting. Fuck you.”

Richie licks the palm of his hand and raises his eyebrows, “Delicious!”

“That’s awful!” Eddie leans down to splash water towards Richie with his hands, “That’s basically grey-water, fish grey-water, you know that?” Richie throws his back, laughing, like Eddie finding him disgusting is the funniest thing in the world. 

Richie pitches his voice up, “Ever heard of a staph infection, Richie?” He breaks a little on his own name. 

“Nice Voice, dickwad. You sound like your mom.”

Richie mouths the words, _ your mom, your mom, your mom. _

“Okay,” Eddie flips his sunglasses down and looks at Richie dead-on, “This is boring now,” Richie puts his hands on his hips, still deep in his impression while Eddie continues, “And way too gross to be fun. Let’s go?” Richie nods once, sharply, a pinched caricature of Eddie’s younger self.

The trek across the park is deeply uncomfortable. They both look like idiots, dripping across the pavement with their hair wild from dried saltwater. Richie keeps sidestepping towards every other booth and fried food-smell and Eddie has to practically tow him back to the car. 

“Okay, strip,” Richie pulls off his shorts and digs into his bag for a dry pair, the upper third of his body disappearing into the trunk of the car. He really doesn’t look all that obscene in boxers and a t-shirt on the beach.

Eddie bunches up the hem of his shirt in his fist, psyching up. _ It’s fine, _ He thinks, _ It’s a beach, it’s totally normal to get undressed. No one will look at you. _It is fine, really. No one looks at him. 

He settles into his seat, still jittery around the legs, in a Derry Highschool Track t-shirt he stole from Richie years ago and still sleeps in. This is one of his favorite things, the seven of them basically share a wardrobe. After the first summer, it became totally impractical to track what belonged to who. Richie definitely has an old pair of Eddie’s red gym shorts but he refuses to own up to it. 

“Where to, 38?” Richie asks, turning the keys in the ignition. Eddie rolls his eyes. The back of his jersey reads _Tozier _ underneath the collar with a big, red _ 38 _ in the center and _ Derry High Track & Field _ at the bottom. They had tried out, together, years ago and Richie had actually stayed on the team for a season. Eddie had hoped Richie wouldn’t register his shirt choice.

“The animal shelter, asshole. I have to make a deposit.”

They drive up and down the streets of downtown for a little while. Eddie cranes his neck to look into cramped diners and chain clothing stores and cafes. He realizes that some small part of his brain is looking for the Losers. He is expecting to look into one of the cafes and see all of them crowded around a small table, Ben with his coffee and cream and sugar and Beverly with her cappuccino and Richie with his hot chocolate because Bev would never forgive him for taking up coffee again. All Eddie sees are strangers, so finally he settles on Richie, watching his profile as they meander through the streets of Portland. 

They settle on a thrift store called _Angels of Hope._

When they pull up to the curb in front of the low wood paneled storefront Eddie says, “I need to get out of your gross shirt.”

Richie breaks and knocks his head to one side like his neck is broken, smiling, “You love my gross clothes. Now let’s go buy some leather pants!”

The bell above the door chimes as they walk in but there’s no one at the counter to acknowledge them. Eddie fiddles with the strap of Richie’s camera, slung around his neck. It’s really Mike’s camera, from years ago, but Stan convinced him to give it up to Richie, knowing they all wanted the blurry polaroids Richie takes. 

Richie beelines for a rack of awful patterned button-ups. He grabs one in each hand and holds them up, looking for Eddie’s approval. One is a woman’s blouse with white and blue flowers and bright green leaves and the other is a garrish orange with vertical teal stripes. Eddie almost laughs. _ Disgusting, _he thinks, “I love it! You’ll look like a senile old woman,” He says.

“I want to get some clothes for you,” Richie sets the shirts back on their rack and starts digging through the denim section, “I wanna rework your whole Full House reject look.”

“I’m wearing your clothes, dumbass,” Eddie is rifling through a rack of blazers with massive shoulder pads, imagining them over Richie’s already disproportionate shoulders, “I’m picking some out for you.”

Eddie gets Richie into a big, dorky prom tux from the 70’s. He rolls up the sleeves of the shirt and jacket up to his elbows. They can’t find a bow tie so he has a large, bird-print tie knotted around his tux-shirt, “I want to buy the tie for Stan,” Richie admires it.

“Are birds all you know about him?” 

“Hey, fuck you,” Richie says while Eddie snaps a picture of him, “Stan is my best friend and I’m his favorite.”

“I am not coming out!” Eddie yells from behind the curtain of the single cramped dressing room, tugging at the hem of the cropped football jersey, “You suck and this sucks.”

Richie opens the curtain of the dressing room, and laughs, loud and obnoxious, “Woah!” he shouts, right at the end of it. 

“Is this some weird sex-thing?” Eddie asks, covering his stomach awkwardly, “Because if it is, you have to tell me. Legally, you’re required to.”

“Yeah, Nightmare on Elm Street Johnny Depp is what does it for me. I actually had your mom wear the exact same outfit last night!” 

Eddie spits out, “You’re such an asshole, you know that, Richie? I know for a fact that you’re a fucking virgin- a virgin! And all you do is talk about sex, which is totally why you’re a virgin, by the way--” Richie snaps a picture of him like that, fists balled, mouth open, face screwed up, yelling at him. He does the whole thing smiling broadly, _U__nbearable_.

Richie finds a pair of tattered jeans that are definitely too big for Eddie but he convinces him to try them on anyway. Eddie takes a photo of Richie in the woman’s blouse and they take one together in front of the mirror standing against the wall of the dressing room. 

“I’m totally buying the shirts,” Richie says while Eddie puts each clothing article Richie discarded back on its hanger and onto a rack, “You should get something, too. I’m sick of the Polos.”

Eddie frowns at that but does end up buying some old t-shirts, varying shades of maroon and purple, soft with age. He gets a pair of jeans, too, a high-waisted pair Richie picked out for him. They find the cashier in a back corner of the store and pay. They wear the clothes out of the store and carry their old outfits in pale pink paper bags with _ Angels of Hope _ printed in delicate lettering across the front.

Richie throws himself into the driver's seat, landing harshly as always, “Where to now, Eddie Spaghetti?” 

Eddie smoothes out the front of his new shirt. He feels a little stupid for buying it. He only did it because Richie told him to; it has a crease near the shoulder that won’t go away and the purple tone makes his skin look yellow and jaundiced, “Let’s just drive through the night. I want to show Bill those awful pictures of you.”

“No way, wet blanket. We’re taking these hot ‘fits out on the town,” Eddie looks out the window and frowns. Really, he would like to get to Bill’s apartment as quickly as possible. He loves Richie’s car (Jean Grey, they call it) but he’s sick of sitting up all the time and he hates hotel rooms and more than anything he hates drinking, especially Richie drinking. He wants to post up on Bill’s couch and never, ever leave. Richie shoulders towards Eddie without looking away from the road, even though he’s rolling to a stop at a yellow light, “It’s what Bill would want! Get all our partying out of our system here so we don’t tear the Big Apple up too bad.”

“Whatever you do in New York will be totally irreparable, Richie, no matter how much you drink tonight.” 

Eddie keeps his mouth shut after that, letting Richie drive to a strip of bars farther from the center of town. Sometimes, he allows this. He waits patiently to see where Richie will drag him and what will happen there. Every once in a while it is very good. 

Richie parks, “Okay, the one right on the corner there,” Eddie grabs his jacket (Bill’s jacket from their freshman year) and Richie points, “_Mama Shanty’s Hen House_. Bev went here a lot last summer.”

“She took you?” Eddie knew Beverly went to bars, mostly gay bars, but he thought it was _ her _ thing. Her special thing that she did without them. He thought she never invited him because she never invited any of them.

“Uh, yeah, once or twice. It’s fun, you’ll like it,” _ It doesn’t matter, _ Eddie thinks, _ They won’t let me in. Bev and Richie have fakes, I don’t. We won’t get let in and then we’ll get burgers and drive through the night. _

They do get let in, the bouncer recognizes Richie. She’s tall and broad and Eddie thinks she’s a man at first. He feels so guilty about it that he can’t look her in the eyes while she talks, “Richie! Where’s the pretty friend? The spunky redhead!”

Richie’s still taller than her but when he talks it _ feels _ like he’s looking up at her, “Jess! She’s in Oregon, finally got out,” He laughs a little and Jess laughs too, “It’s okay though, I brought another pretty friend.”

She opens the door for them, thick dark wood, “It’s Dyke Night, you know.” Eddie digs his hands into the pockets of his jacket. He hates that word. He knows it's okay for her to say it, he can tell by how she looks but beyond that, the way she says it. A little bit like an inside joke. He still hates it.

Richie smiles at her, making his way through the door, Eddie on his heels, “Not that kind of pretty! We’re just here to drink and talk.” 

Richie leads him to the bar, crowded with women, smiling and laughing. The room is warm, _Too warm_, Eddie thinks, but it’s nice. It’s friendly.

There’s two bartenders, a lanky guy with dangly earrings that glitter in the lights above the bar and a short woman with bouncy hair bundled into a silky scarf. _She looks like an old-timey actress, _ Eddie thinks, _An actress Bev would like. She’s very beautiful. _She walks across the long bar busily, mixing drinks and flirting, smiling the most at a muscular woman in a leather jacket opposite the bar from him and Richie.

The guy makes his way over to them and Richie drums on the bar, “Bad night to be such a good looking guy, huh?” The bartender smiles at him.

“It’s okay, she deserves the tips,” He flashes another smile, _ And so do I, _he means.

Richie leans across the bar, “So do you.”

“Can I get a drink?” Eddie asks, mostly just to shut Richie up. He thinks he sounds infantile, like he’s asking his mom for juice.

“Sure, kid, what can I get you?” The ‘kid’ trips Eddie up and he realizes he didn’t really think this far ahead. He usually drinks whatever garbage Beverly mixed in a cup for him. 

Richie cuts in, “Surprise him.”

It’s bitter and carbonated and Eddie actually chokes on the first sip. It’s not all an alcohol-bitterness. _ Grapefruit. _He keeps sipping while he watches the bartender come back to Richie again and again, sliding up and down the bar, laughing at Richie’s jokes and compliments (more so at the compliments), his earrings shimmering in the light. His name is Cal.

“I’ve never heard of Derry, is it close?” He asks, over the mellow music and loud conversation. 

“Derry blows. Pretend I’m from Bangor,” Richie runs his hands through his hair and smiles while Cal laughs.

“Can I have another, uh…” Eddie doesn’t plan to get drunk but he desperately wants an escape from third-wheeling Richie, “Whatever this is?”

Half-way through that second drink the door busts open and the crowd on the dance floor cheers uproariously. Three tall women, made taller by shimmering pumps and high-heeled boots, walk in, waving and blowing kisses. Two start dancing, waltzing with women in collared shirts and colorful bow ties and one sits in the empty spot at the bar, next to Eddie. 

“Hello, Miss Paula Mean! Martini?” Cal asks. 

Eddie can’t help but stare. He’s never seen a drag queen in person. She has teased white hair, _ A wig, _ with sparkly pieces of tinsel peeking out. Her eyelashes are black with flecks of glitter, sticking half an inch out from her face. He can see, in her red lipstick, where her cupid’s bow is. Her dress is tight and the same bright red as her lipstick, a shifting silky material. Eddie almost wants to reach out and touch it. _ Don’t touch strangers in bars, _ Eddie reminds himself. Everything about her reflects the yellow light above the bar. _ She is beautiful, _ Eddie thinks, _ She is a man in a dress, _Eddie feels bad for thinking she is beautiful and then he feels bad for feeling bad. He is still staring.

She catches his eye and winks, “And one for the kid,” She has a southern accent. Eddie can’t tell if it’s real or part of the character. _ Paula Mean, southern belle. _

“I’m Eddie,” He means to smile but he can’t. He’s still staring, eyes stuck on the blush on her cheeks.

“Hello Eddie,” She sticks her hand out to shake and he almost doesn’t. _ Don’t touch strangers in bars_, He does shake her hand, though, and then he smiles, “Eddie, are you old enough to be in this bar?” 

For a second Eddie feels like he’s caught. He worries they’ll get kicked out and Richie will never let him live it down. He catches Paula’s smile and realizes she knows he’s too young. She’s teasing him. He leans in, “Well, I’m here, aren’t I?” 

She laughs and Cal sets their drinks down, “Oh, I like you,” She says and it feels like a warm hand on a cold arm. She turns on the stool to call out to the dance floor, “Teddy! Janet! Get over here!” Her voice is deep when she yells and Eddie feels bad again. _ Man in a dress, man in a dress, man in a dress_. The two women walk over, their faces sparkling with sweat and glitter.

“Oh!” One says, resting an arm on Paula’s shoulder, “You found a twink!”

Eddie hears Richie laugh loudly behind him and he feels sick to his stomach. He takes a sip of the martini, as if it will help, “I’m not…” He mutters into the rim of the glass. _ It doesn’t matter, _ He knows, _ They’re strangers. It doesn’t matter if they think I’m… _ He takes another sip --_A twink. _

They laugh along with Richie and Paula says, “Be nice, he’s a kid! Is this your first time at a gay bar, Eddie?” 

Richie drapes over Eddie and rests his head on Eddie’s shoulder, “Yes!” He says, loud enough to hurt Eddie’s ear, “You lovely ladies are popping his cherry,” Eddie cringes away from Richie’s touch. Richie’s being especially gross but the rest of them, including Cal, seemed charmed. They laugh again. 

When Eddie finishes his martini, Cal sets another drink down in front of him. It’s pink and much sweeter than the ones he’s had so far. It reminds him of what Bev would make for him, back in Derry. Richie’s drinking beer like he wants to drown in it and Cal leans in every time he hands him one, only encouraging the habit. 

Eddie laughs more and more at Richie’s grosser and grosser jokes. One of Paula’s friends, Janet, drags Richie onto the dance floor eventually, and they spin around and giggle for a song and a half before coming back to the group. Cal stays at their end of the bar, they are the only non-lesbians there. Teddy’s wig is crooked and Janet keeps trying to fix it but it’s no use, it keeps skewing to the right. 

“You are such a sloppy drunk!” Paula laughs while Teddy holds her wig place. Eddie feels sober, really sober. He can’t stop laughing at everything Richie says and does and his face feels hot. 

“I think I’m still sober,” He says to Richie, swaying back and forth and honest-to-god _ giggling _. 

Richie slaps the bar, “You are drunk as a skunk, Eduardo!” He stands up, his face exaggerated and panicked like he’s struggling to keep his balance.

“You’re drunk! Drunk-Richie!” Eddie is much louder than he means to be. _ Shhhhh _, he thinks to himself, and that makes him laugh too.

Richie dips forwards, “I’m going for a smoke,” He says, close to Eddie’s face. 

Paula smiles at them and Eddie smiles back, “Drunk,” He says, like he’s explaining himself. Or like he’s explaining Richie.

The song changes as Richie leaves the bar and Paula screams and leaps up, following Teddy and Janet to the dance floor. 

Eddie lays his palms flat against the bar top, “I’m the youngest person here, I think,” He says to his hands, “My birthday is in November,” _ Richie’s birthday is in March. _Eddie still feels sober, but like a sober person whose limbs have gained sentience and now move of their own accord.

“Your friend is cute,” Cal says.

Eddie makes an awkward _ kssshh _ sound, something close to laughter, “He’s okay. He’s kind of a bitch.” 

Cal laughs and if Eddie were an anxious kind of sober he would worry Cal was laughing at him. But he is a happy, out-of-body-sober kind of sober, and he just looks at his hands and lifts them up carefully (Or, his hands lift themselves up and he watches) (Or, hands that were once his, but are now their own, lift themselves up and he watches, like a mother of unruly, grown-up children). His skin (Or, skin that was once his) sticks to bar top. 

He feels alone. He is alone. Cal is somewhere behind a door at the back of the bar and Paula, Teddy, and Janet dance and mouth along to the lyrics of every song dramatically. Eddie watches the other bartender. He thinks about Beverly and he wonders if she ever loved a woman. _ She loves Ben, _He thinks. 

Richie walks back in and Eddie stands up to meet him, his feet (Feet that once belonged to him) getting a little caught on the floor boards. 

Richie grabs his forearms and holds him up at an arm’s length, “Everything okay?” 

The mouth that once belonged to Eddie smiles, “Let’s go home.”

Richie frowns, guiding them a little farther from the groups of people dancing and half-props Eddie against the wall, “We’re awfully far from home.”

The head that once belonged to Eddie, that once had Eddie’s brain inside it (_Where is my brain? _ Eddie thinks) shakes and he says, “Not home. Hotel. Car?”

Richie laughs a little and holds Eddie around the middle, walking back towards the door, “Drunk,” He says, very quietly. He smells like cigarette smoke. 

They step outside and it is pitch black. Richie is saying something to the bouncer, Jess, and Eddie can’t make out the words. He tilts his head all the way up and see the moon. A little more than half-full. He realizes he has no idea what time it is. How many songs did they listen to? How many drinks did he have? Three? Four? 

“A million,” He says.

Richie looks down at him and this time Eddie understands what he’s saying, “Okay, you are way-drunk,” He turns back to Jess, “I have to get him to bed before he pisses himself. See you around.” 

Jess smiles, “Don’t get into any trouble now, Richie.”

“Richie, are you drunk?” Eddie can’t remember why he’s asking. Why does it matter if Richie’s drunk? _ Drunk driving, _ his brain, wherever it is, thinks, _130,000 accidents last year alone. _

“Hell yeah,” Richie says, making his way across the street with Eddie on his arm, “I’m plastered,” _ You don’t seem drunk, now, _Eddie wills the mouth that used to be his to speak but it doesn’t and Richie continues, “There’s a hotel a block from here.”

_ Oh right, _ Eddie realizes, this time willing the mouth that used to be his not to speak, _ You and Beverly used to go here all the time. As best friends. And you would flirt with gay people and dance with drag queens. And you don’t invite me. _

Eddie’s thoughts shift out of focus and for one single second and the pressure of Richie’s arm around his waist is the only thing he can feel. He feels like he is stuck there, glued, but not trapped. The second ends, sliding into the next, and the next second after that and Eddie thinks _ Slow down, please. _ He thinks, _ I need to catch my breath. I’m out of breath, please. _

He pants a little bit and Richie sways, drunk after all, “Is this--” Eddie sucks in a breath like he’s drinking it from a straw before he continues, “Is it a nice hotel?”

“The nicest. Totally haunted. You’ll love it.”

“No lepers,” Eddie says. _ What leper? _His head hurts. A head hurts. Is it his?

“No leopards, Eddie.”

It’s a dingy motel, with brass keys to the rooms and peeling wallpaper. The clerk looks at them with obvious suspicion and this makes Eddie giggle. He wonders if she thinks they’re gay guys, renting a room to have wild sex. Or, maybe she thinks they’re two drunk high-schoolers, sneaking from bar to bar, getting kicked off every corner. _ Somewhere in there, _ he wants to tell her, _ Somewhere in there is the truth. Ha ha. _

Richie fumbles with the key to get into the room. All their stuff, except what they had on them in the bar, is in their car. Eddie’s skin itches with a need to brush his teeth. And it is his skin, again. His head feels heavy and he lays down on the bed in his jeans and coat. Richie takes Eddie’s shoes off for him, setting them as neatly as he can next to his bed. 

Then he strips down to his boxers and crawls into bed, pulling the cord on the lamp sitting on the bedside table between them. 

“Were you going to tell me?” Eddie’s face is mashed into the pillow but he’s too dizzy to move it so his speech is muffled, “Were you going to tell me that you’re gay?”

Richie shuffles under the grimy duvet, “I’m not fucking gay.”

This is too confusing for Eddie’s drunk brain, even if his body is his body again, “So, what, you just go out to gay bars and hook up with guys and you’re not gay?”

“It’s fun. They buy me drinks and laugh at my jokes and then I go home to Derry. Or here,” There’s more shuffling and Eddie feels like this is something important but he’s having trouble focusing in on what Richie is saying to him. He feels like his head is way zoomed out. Richie's voice pipes up, “Alone. I’m not gay.”

“Richie?” Eddie _ sounds _ drunk, he can hear it in his own voice. It’s only two syllables but he still slurs it out. He sounds childish. He thinks of how he sounded back at the bar, rude and infantile, like a toddler when they’re overdue for a nap. The blankets don’t shift and there’s no talking, but in the darkness he thinks he can hear steady breathing.

In the time it takes Richie to respond, listening to his breathing, Eddie falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if my music (or movie) references are lame! i was not alive in the 80s or 90s


	3. It's your brain that's small

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie calls Beverly and then he and Richie crash the Salem Witch Museum!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW FOR THE F SLUR in this chapter  
Just a short chapter, some fun reddie dialogue and a lot of angry eddie lol. next chapter is nyc!

Eddie wakes up hours after Richie, head throbbing. He has a killer hangover every time he drinks, no matter how much food he eats or how well he paces himself. He opens his eyes reluctantly, reaching almost blindly to the bedside table, where Richie put out a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin from Eddie’s suitcase. He notices his suitcase, next to Richie’s backpack, in the corner of the room. 

He takes twice the recommended dose of aspirin and then gets increasingly more nervous about liver failure and even debates making himself throw up before Richie walks in the door and interrupts his train of thought. 

“We missed breakfast so I got you a Big Mac,” Richie sets a bag on the foot of Eddie’s bed.

“This is totally going to fuck up my stomach,” Eddie says as he flips open the bun of his burger to check for pickles. No pickles.

“Greasy foods are good for hangovers,” Richie says, opening the drawer of the nightstand and pulling out the Bible. He holds the front and back covers, shaking the book and letting the pages flutter. Four $1 bills fall from in between the pages to the ground and Richie picks them up. 

Eddie thinks harder and harder about the night before, trying to pinpoint the moments that could become jokes, looking for some excuse to bring it up. For a second he imagines the most extreme responses. Screaming at him. Stealing the car. Going home. (There is a more extreme response, but he can’t think of it.) He recognizes this as a loop, a cycle, that will run him ragged if he’s not careful. So he’s careful. He focuses on being mad at Richie. 

He is angry about all the things Richie knows, about himself and the world. This, he knows, is irrational. It’s safe, though, and he dwells on it. 

“You ever gonna get that ass in gear?” Richie asks, eating some of Eddie’s fries.

Eddie stands up when Richie opens his mouth and is halfway across the room when he finishes, “Give me 15 minutes,” He says, opening the bathroom door with an armful of clothes.

The bathroom is small and grubby, the grout between the tiles blackened with decay. He showers quickly, doing his best to avoid the walls and floor as much as possible. He squints at his reflection while he brushes his teeth. He’s a little warped in the smears of the mirror. Underneath the fingerprints and god knows what else, he looks tired. His eyes are bloodshot and he’s pale. _ All the sunscreen, _He thinks. 

He brushes his teeth for a full five minutes and only spits because Richie is banging on the door (Richie is not bothered by Angry Eddie and Eddie sometime thinks this is the best response), “Andale, Eduardo!” He says from the other side of the door. 

“I’ll drive,” Eddie says when he opens the door.

As soon as they get into the car, Eddie adjusts the seats, pulling forward to reach the pedals. 

“Holy shit dude,” Richie says, “Your seat is shoved so far back. What the fuck do you need all this leg room for?”

Eddie turns the key in the ignition, “It’s the safest position in the event of a wreck, dick. People break their necks on airbags.”

“You planning on wrecking my car?” Richie smiles at Eddie, who’s twisted over his seat to back out of the parking lot, and shoves a tape into the cassette player.

“You’re just mad that I’m a better driver than you.”

“You’re a menace, is what you are. If you hurt the Phoenix, I’ll never forgive you.”

Eddie flips off another driver and notices how warm the day is getting. _ I should have put sunblock on my left arm, _He thinks. He turns down the music a little, “Hey, do you want to stop in Salem?”

“You gonna pick up some witches, Steady Eddie?”

“No witches,” He bobs his head along to The Cure song, playing low through the car speakers, “Just a bunch of dead women.”

Richie turns the radio up, “Ghosts,” He says under the music, as if Eddie won’t hear. He hums along to the words.

_ It was the sweetness of your skin _

_ It was the hope of all we might have been_

Eddie sneaks a look at Richie, who has the window down again. His head is fully stuck out and he even opens his mouth, for just a second, _ Sheepdog, _ Eddie thinks. He ducks back into the car and leans down. Eddie looks back to the road, and then to Richie again. _ He’s untying his shoes, _Eddie realizes just as Richie sits up. His clunky boots are loose on his feet, the laces undone. It’s only a second that he pauses before he leans down again to retie them.

Then he starts with his hands, running them over every texture he can find. He starts with the dashboard, like he’s sweeping away dust and then the legs of his pants, from thigh to knee and then back again.

“Will you knock that off? You’re being neurotic,” When Eddie speaks Richie’s head snaps up and then his head dips back down again. He looks ridiculous.

“Sorry,” He looks out the window, “I should’ve smoked before we left.”

_ Smoke out the window, dumbass, _ Eddie almost says. And then he thinks, _That'll kill you._ Instead, he says, “We’ll stop at the next phone booth,” Richie nods in his peripheral, “I want to call Bev.”

Eddie thinks the phone booth might kill him. He wonders if you can get an ear infection from a used phone. It’s awful, to worry like this. It’s awful because it’s not his mother in his head, telling him he’s sick. It’s only him, telling him all the ways he could _ get _ sick. 

He keeps a box of tissues in the glove compartment of Richie’s car and has one over his index finger to dial the house phone number of Bev’s apartment and one in his other hand, holding the phone. He considers it and then finally decides to put a tissue between his face and the ear piece, too. 

The phone clicks on the third ring, “Kay McCall,” Beverly’s roommate answers. 

“Hey, it’s Eddie,” She’s met all the Losers, once in person, and countless times picking up the phone like this, “Is Beverly there?”

Beverly’s voice is a little brighter than Kay’s and Eddie likes to imagine it’s because it’s him who’s calling, “Eddie, Eddie, Eddie,” She answers, “How are you, sweetheart?” Beverly is the only person Eddie knows who uses more pet names than Richie. 

“I’m good. Good. How are you? How’s Kay?” 

Beverly talks for a little while, about art and design and the work her and Kay do in Portland.

“I went to a poetry open mic,” She says and Eddie wrinkles his nose. He imagines bad, slow paced slam poetry that’s just a series of meaningless words. The Richie that lives in his head makes a joke about _slam _poetry and Beverly continues, “It was actually really fun. I got offered shrooms like four times. Very welcoming”

Eddie laughs, “Have you been writing?” She journals, he knows that, and Ben wrote when they were kids, mostly love letters to Bev, and Bill’s getting his degree in English Lit, but he can’t imagine her sitting down and writing out slam poetry.

“No,” She says, “But I do read over Bill’s stuff sometimes. Give him my notes,” _ Good, _ Eddie thinks, _ You give good notes, _“You should start journaling, it’s good for you,” She says.

He agrees because it’s Beverly and he knows it’s good advice but he knows he never will. He thinks that if he wrote out his thoughts and feelings in a journal it would come to life and eat him.

Bev tells him a little about the short story Bill is working on, one he wants to submit to a zine at his college. She says his work keeps getting better and better and it’s a little infuriating. 

“He can paint beautifully and write these insane, chilling stories. It’s awful. I’m so proud of him,” She says, very fondly.

Eddie nods along, even though she can’t see him, and watches Richie. He’s leaning against the car, his back towards the phone booth. He turns a little and Eddie can just see the profile of his face, his long nose, and the cigarette in his mouth. He puffs out a breath of smoke. 

“Eddie?” She asks.

“Yeah? Sorry, what did you say?”

He hears her laugh, distorted through the phone and all the distance, “I asked you how the road trip has been so far.”

“Oh, it’s been good,” Eddie thinks back to the bar and the drag queen and _ Richie _ and he can’t help but bring it up, “We went to a bar. _ Mama Shanty’s._”

“That place is great! Did you have a fun?”

He looks at Richie again. Richie looks back at him and Eddie feels _ caught _ again but Richie just waves and smiles and pulls out another cigarette. Eddie looks at the graffiti on the inside of the phone booth. _ Jaime C. is a FAG, _written in bold letters, looks right back at him. 

“Beverly, have you ever been in love with a woman?” He asks without meaning to. It’s a pointless question, really. Bev would’ve told him if she had.

She takes a moment to answer and he starts to feel insensitive for asking. Maybe she has been in love with a woman. Maybe she doesn’t want to answer. She does, though, “No,” She pauses for another long moment, “No, but I’ve kissed a woman before. And when I met Kay I thought that maybe…” He hears her take a deep breath, “But then Ben visited and I saw him and I just thought- I thought, ‘That’s my person’, you know?”

“But you and Ben were already dating.”

“Yeah,” She says, “Not everyone you date is your soulmate and Ben and I-” She pauses and Eddie pictures her smiles, the soft, almost secretive one she gets when she talks about Ben, “We grew into it,” He looks back at Richie, who’s stomping out his cigarette butt on the ground. Beverly adds, “Whoever your person is, Eddie, we love you the same.”

She’s using what he recognizes as her _ Mom Voice_\- not his mom specifically, but the mom she becomes when they are scraped up and bruised and _ needy _. Eddie feels sick to his stomach, “I’m not-” He starts and his voice is too loud so he tries again, “I’m not gay.”

She answers, her tone measured, but not gentle (she knows he hates it when she’s gentle), “Okay,” It’s the same as what happened last night with Richie but it’s different, too. _ Stupid, _ Eddie thinks, _ Everything is the same and different. That’s how it works. _

How had Richie sounded last night? Angry?

_ I’m not fucking gay. _

Eddie’s thoughts are loud in his head. 

_ Eddie K. is a FAG. _

They talk for a little longer and then Richie starts dancing around like a little kid, restless, and Eddie tells Bev he has to go. 

“Take care of yourself, okay?” 

Eddie smiles, “Okay, Bev. Love you.”

“Sometimes I wish Bev had stayed,” Richie looks at Eddie’s profile while he drives but Eddie keeps his eyes on the road, “I mean, not really,” Richie amends, “Her aunt hated it here and, you know…” He trails off. Eddie knows, _ Derry hurts. It only stops hurting when you leave. We all have to leave at some point. _Richie looks away from Eddie and says, “I just miss her.” 

_ What if I don’t leave, though? Will you miss me? Will you, really? _Richie turns up the music. 

Richie looks ridiculous in his completely shredded jeans, woman’s blouse, and a pair of Bev’s fake designer sunglasses, his own glasses pushed up on his head. His hair’s clean at least. Eddie stretches when he gets out of the car, “You look ridiculous,” He says to Richie as he begins to check his left arm for signs of melanoma.

Richie grins, taking great pride in curating outfits Eddie is disgusted by. His jeans are so torn that his entire knee is exposed when he sits, the whole bend of it poking out. The strangest pieces of his skin are visible, _ He’ll have the weirdest tan lines, _Eddie thinks.

“Okay,” Eddie says, tossing the keys to Richie, the sparkly pink _ Groovy _ key chain jingling, “First stop: Salem Witch Museum.”

Richie sighs dramatically, “I have an aversion to the word ‘museum’, Eddie, you know that.”

Eddie smiles, or maybe grimaces, because the sun is in his eyes, and says, a little louder than he needs to, “Suck it up, Tozier!”

“Do you think the witches will be hot, at least?”

Richie and Eddie walk through the museum slowly, at the back of the tour group. There’s a guide with them, a tiny, grinning woman with a bouncy ponytail, but they mostly ignore her. Richie talks along with each exhibit, mixing what he remembers from The Crucible with a lot of bullshit he makes up. 

“This,” He says, his voice mellow, “This is Abigail! The catalyst! She was a whiny brat of a 15 year old and that’s what everyone thought. Who was that girl who wrote on your cast? Uh- Gretta! Gretta, you remember her? That’s the type. Her bitching put Gretta to fucking shame. Couldn’t outdo sweet Missus K, though, you know that.”

Eddie makes a noise that is closer to a cough than anything else but Richie smiles like it’s a victory. Eddie frowns, “You’re on your fourth Abigail, you know,” Richie laughs loudly, with his mouth wide open and hand across his chest, so exaggerated it sounds sarcastic. The tour-guide cranes her neck to look at them through the crowd of tourists and squints her eyes, still smiling. 

Eddie shoves himself into Richie’s arm, as if this will ease the embarrassment. She looks away, not breaking character, but Eddie imagines her eyes on them still. The discomfort comes off him in waves, even Richie can tell. He narrates much quieter, leaning down to whisper jokes in Eddie’s ear until Eddie is almost-laughing,

“You know why witches don’t wear panties?” Richie’s chin bumps Eddie’s shoulder and he can feel Richie’s breath on his cheek. _ Disgusting. _

“Get you cancer-ridden fucking germs-” Eddie pauses here so Richie can lean back and admire Eddie’s _ I’m going to fucking kill you, Richie Vivien Tozier _ face, “-Out of my ear canal, you prick!” His voice is a breathy stage whisper and if Richie were paying attention, he would recognize Eddie as _ Still nervous. Treat me normally or I’ll never calm down, _Luckily Richie treats Eddie exactly like he always does, whether he needs it or not. 

His eyes go wide as he delivers the punchline, “To grip the broom!” Richie laughs to himself, a scratchy throat sound as he struggles to do anything quietly.

_ Asshole. Prick. I hate you. _

Eddie doesn’t say anything. He slows down so they’re farther behind the group, understanding that Richie will not be able to be this quiet for very much longer. 

They walk to the next exhibit and Richie says, “Wait, I know another witch one. It’s- it’s long,” He pauses, trying to remember, “It starts with a 15-inch dick, I remember that.”

“Of course that’s what you remember.”

“Oh, wait, shut up- I’ve got it, okay, I have it,” Richie takes in a big, important breath and says, “Okay so I had a 15-inch dick, right?” Eddie pretends he’s reading a plaque in front of the exhibit but his eyes don’t move past the date, “But it’s not great! No girl wants me! They all say, ‘Rich, sweet, sexy Richie, the man of my dreams, I love your animal magnetism and I have total faith in your sexual prowess-”

Eddie interrupts without looking up, “God, can you speed it up?”

Richie talks a little faster but it’s hard to tell if it’s on purpose, “None of them will sleep with me because my dick is just huge! So I go to this witch, right? A witch, Eddie! Don’t worry, though, she wasn’t hot. Anyways, she says that there’s this big purple toad down by the quarry, massive ugly thing, and if I can get this toad to say ‘No’ to me, my pecker will shrink a whole three inches!”

Eddie can see Richie getting a little bored. _ Finish the joke, asshole. C’mon. _

Richie continues, “So I go down there and there’s a big purple toad! Freaky shit! So I think to myself, I think, ‘What can I do to get this big ugly fuck to say no to my irresistible mug?’ Well, I ask the toad to fuck me,” Eddie snorts and Richie spurrs on, talking faster, “And he says no! The bastard! So Little Richie shrinks a whole three inches but goddamn, Eddie, it’s still a beast. So I think, ‘I’ll go down another three’ and I ask the toad again, ‘Will you fuck me?’ and the toad’s a little pissed he answers, ‘Fuck no!’ and the little Hulk is down to nine inches and I think, Eddie, I think to myself, ‘Six inches sounds just sublime,’ Isn’t that right? You’re packing a full five, right?”

“You’re such a piece of shit. Finish the joke.”

“Anyways, I say, ‘Please, fuck me!’,” The Richie Inside Eddie’s Head interrupts the Real Richie and says, _ Sounded just like your mom last night! _ “-And this toad, he says, ‘No! No! How many times do I have to say it? A thousand times No!’,” Richie laughs loudly, doubling over with it and Eddie is totally underwhelmed. It reminds him of a joke he heard about a monk once. 

_ Starts at a monastery, _ He remembers the joke slowly, _ You stay the night at a monastery and all night you hear a strange sound. _ There is something about a door. _ The sound on the other side of a heavy oak door. When you ask a monk what the sound is he tells you, ‘I’m sorry, you’re not a monk, I can’t tell you.' You stay at another monastery years later and hear the same noise, and ask again and again and at the very end, _ This is the part that reminds him of the joke Richie told, _ You ask the joke-teller what’s behind the door, because you’re so goddamn fed up with his stupid long-jokes. ‘I’m sorry,’ He will tell you, ‘You are not a monk, I can’t tell you.’ _

The punchline, he remembers now, is not funny.

_ You never open the door. You never open any of the doors. _

They walk around for a while and end up standing in front of three houses, scaled down but still towering over them, made of sticks. They loom creepy and childish. They look like they are being blown over by wind but Eddie can tell they are sturdy. He wishes he had brought the camera to take a photo for Ben. He wishes he could draw a picture for him, too. 

“Ben would love this creepy shit,” Richie says, his head tilted back like it’s on a hinge, “He finally told me he’s leaving,” Richie continues, “As if I haven’t known for months. As if he doesn’t- wouldn’t-” He gets a little stuck, not looking away from the houses, “He loves Bev so damn much.”

“That prick,” Eddie says. Richie snorts. He can tell Richie wants to be cut off, to have to start his sentences over again, to listen to one of Eddie’s long, loud rants, but he stops after those two words. Maybe he’s still mad at Richie. Maybe he just wants to hear what he has to say. 

Richie’s still looking at the houses, his head back, steady on his shoulders now, while he talks, “Sometimes I miss being Beverly’s favorite guy. There was that sweet spot between Bill and Ben- Hah! Sweet spot,” He says the word _ Hah _ like an expletive and moves on, “I was her favorite. We pooled all our cigarettes and cash,” This is a lot for Richie. _ Too much, _ Eddie knows, _ For one day, _ “It just sucks, I guess.”

Eddie knows that Richie loves Ben. Adores him, even. He lets up on Richie and finally starts talking, “I can’t believe Ben’s moving across the country just to get away from you,” Richie looks back at Eddie, finally, “Overkill.”

Richie almosts shivers as he reverts back to- to whatever he is when he’s normal and okay. Eddie thinks it’s the walls going up, but that’s cliche. It’s more like someone getting better after being sick for a long time. The slide from a tender, disgusting, rawness to personhood. Eddie likes Richie when he’s _ vulnerable _ but he knows how much Richie hates it. 

Richie laughs, “Maybe Bev is just rescuing him from _ you _ and your hand sanitizer.”

Eddie doesn’t laugh, but he frowns and crosses his arms, which he knows Richie likes better anyways. 

“You ready for New York?” Eddie asks. He really does miss Bill.

“More like is New York ready for us- Am I right or am I right? Let’s hit the road, Special K.”

Eddie is almost sad when they get back in the car, Richie driving again. _ The getting there is almost over, _ he thinks, _All that's left is__ the _ There _ and the going back. _

It’s okay, though. He can handle it. He can keep pretending this is just a road trip and not a last-hoorah road trip. He can get there and be there and then _ go back _ and be okay. 

“Excited to see buh-Big buh-Bill,” Richie says, one hand fiddling with the straw of the drink in the cup holder, one hand on the wheel. He looks relaxed and focused at the same time, limp in the wrists and slack in the shoulders, in a very Richie-way. Eddie hates how easy he makes everything look. 

He’s not mad at Richie. Jealousy floats around in his head, just the idea of it, but he thinks he’s not self-aware or self-loathing enough to admit, even to himself, that he's jealous of Richie Tozier. 

Eddie looks out the window all the way to New York City.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To clarify: richie's car is named after the xmen character jean grey (who is also called the phoenix) and the song they listen to on the way to salem is to wish for impossible things by the cure. im sorry if yall got bored at the long jokes! i liked writing them but i don't think there will be any more (at least in this fic) so if u hated them u are in the clear lol.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr [@tasteblind](https://tasteblind.tumblr.com/)  
and my beta is [@1892](https://1892.tumblr.com/)


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